


Like Herding Cats

by miss_mon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, HP: EWE, How Do I Tag, Master of Death Harry Potter, Swearing, a lot of this is headcanon i hope u realise, excessive use of swears, family fic, hand-wavy Naruto canon, harry potter's terrible luck, i take my work v srsly, i'll keep the tags up to date i promise, i'm basically taking the piss out of all those self-insert fics, i'm terrible at naming things omg, probably a bunch of swearing?, that boy - Freeform, the only thing that's canon is how oblivious harry is, there's not much direction rn so all the tags are just me whispering in panic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8221394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_mon/pseuds/miss_mon
Summary: Harry Potter, aged 29 and official Wizarding Recluse™, generally began the day without a herd of abandoned cats taking shelter in his broom shed. That they ended up being transformed and bound human(?) mercenaries from an Alternate Dimension© really was more up his alley. That doesn't make the experience any less stressful, dangerous or overall ridiculous.





	1. Trespassing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm both sorry and entirely unrepentant about this hot mess.

Mondays meant many things to Harry Potter, Wizarding Saviour, Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Triumphed, and Witches Weekly’s most eligible bachelor. As a young boy they seemed to vary in quality at the drop of a hat – how was Uncle Vernon feeling about going to work that morning? What measure on the Richter scale was Dudley’s routine tantrum? Had he burnt breakfast? When suffering through adolescence they meant the end of a weekend and the start of the school week (which, by a lucky coincidence, began with a free period during his seventh year, thank you Headmistress McGonagall). During the war the days of the week were unimportant, and time during the aftermath was dictated solely by meetings, conferences, burials and frantic hunts for the remaining rogue Death Eaters.

However, as an adult in a remote and heavily warded corner of the Welsh countryside, Mondays meant warm coffee with as much sugar as he pleased, a triple-decker bacon and lettuce sandwich on fresh bakery bread, and a freeing, exhilarating flight over the expansive patchwork of fields that surrounded his home. It was a wind down, a way to recover from the bi-weekly convergence at the Weasley-Granger household to pander to three god-children – and any other spawn belonging to the Weasley brood following in the wake of their parents’ footsteps.

On this Monday, however, upon entering his broom shed he was confronted by a number of luminescent eyes staring back at him from the dark depths of the magically expanded shed. Years of battle instincts and the occasional call to arms to deal with powerful magical threats had him shifting his stance, wand in one hand and throwing knife in the other. Immediately the blinking, shuffling movements stilled. Carefully, Harry twitched his wand to trigger the soft glow of the orbs placed hazardously across the room.

In the new light it became clear that a number of cats, varying greatly in size and colour, were nestled on the floor in a puddle of pooled fabric – his spare winter cloaks, according to the bare coat pegs above them. Snorting slightly, he re-sheathed the knife and lowered his wand, keeping it loosely held by his fingertips. Taking a step further into the shed he eyed the assortment of felines, and – wow. Just wow. He’d honestly thought he’d seen most of what the wizarding world had to offer.

The largest had to be part kneazle: silky brown hair matted by what looked to be crude, yet symmetrical stitching spanning the entirety of a dark tabby body, with green-pupiled, red-sclera’d eyes that bore him a look of deep mistrust. Beside him lounged a smaller, dappled silver one, with a positively poisonous fuchsia glare. Three of the most abnormal looking ones were grouped together nearby: one split black and white almost perfectly down the middle, with a conspicuous tuft of emerald at its crown; another shaded an off-blue, with darker marks beneath its golden eyes and spread across its limbs; and the last looked as if he’d rolled its entire body in coal, letting only the orange fur of its face shine through, making his one dark grey eye all the more obvious.

Two of the cats were dark shadows; however the golden-eye one was clearly banished to the cloak-less corner of floor by the rest of the group, while the other, slate eyed, resided beside the blue one. Another two were differing shades of red – one darker with a white belly and lilac eyes, another lighter with dull brown ones, white socks and a ringed tail – while there sat a single ginger with eyes the colour of dried dirt. This one seemed caged in, protected almost, by the darker auburn cat and the navy, nearly purple one (golden eyes – why were they so common? – with a smear of white by its ear). The final, and second only to the lighter red in terms of smallness, stood a blue eyed feline with what appeared to be tufty, but undeniably luxurious-looking pale golden fur.

Their behaviour – tense, far too watchful and intelligent – proved to Harry very quickly that, no, these weren’t normal cats. Not by a longshot. The irregular appearances were clue enough, though generally less telling when one was fully immersed in wizarding culture. However, each of them looked miserable and near-starved – and when has Harry Potter ever been able to resist coming to the rescue?

Stepping closer he watched each of them tense another degree, and reaching behind him to close the door only furthered that reaction. With near glacial speed, he removed his cloak and draped it over his chair, before making a show of removing his knife and placing it on the work desk. A dozen mistrustful eyes watched his movements, narrowing as he grabbed a decorative bowl from a bookshelf.

Stopping a few feet away from the cluster, whose members had slowly risen and taken steps nearer each other, he knelt before them. They eyed him warily, eyes trained on the wand he now pointed at the carved bowl.

"Scourgify,” dust was immediately scoured from the bowl as he calmly assessed the slight flinches he received from his audience. “Agumentae.” A thin stream of water poured cleanly from want-tip to bowl, and a number of the group jerked, crouching low as they watched the spell’s progression. Once full, he pushed the bowl forward before slipping into a more comfortable cross-legged position.

When a full minute passed with no movement he rolled his eyes, leaning forwards enough to cup his hands in the water. Ignoring the way the group shifted slightly he brought a handful of water to his lips, uncaring of the drip on the wooded floor. His actions, at least, got more of a reaction than tense shuffling.

Communication seemed to occur between the twelve, before the silver one was shouldered forward. Harry raised an eyebrow, a smirk etching the corner of his lips as the feline sacrifice snarled back at the group before lapping greedily at the water. Once finished he sat beside the bowl, sending an almost triumphant look at them. After him a black one was sent forward, the outcast, and once it became clear that, no, the water wasn’t poisoned, a sudden, wildly disorganised scrum occurred for who got the bowl first.

It wasn’t until Harry got up to fetch another decorative bowl – this one smaller, as part of the set of three – and set a fresh pool of water before the five that elected to stay behind in the cloak, that he even considered what he would do with them. Placing the water by the nest – and the slinky black, both auburns, the navy, and the ginger by association – he eyed the herd critically.

It was very inadvisable that he keep them – they certainly weren’t mundane, and had a higher probability of being animagi than anything – but, in all honesty, he wanted to. Hedwig was still a scabbing wound, and they all looked rather pathetic – dusty with dried dirt and matted from several rainfalls. How could he turn them away?

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, getting a herd of cats out of his broom shed was much easier that trying to get them into his house.

Once they were finished lapping at their bowls he got to his feet, crossing to open the door. The gesture caused them to share glances, before deferring to those gathered in the cloak – or rather, the ginger, the dark red and the navy ones. One by one they slunk from the room and out onto the still dewy grass, grumbling and almost forlorn.

The problems began as soon as each of them was gathered in the garden, milling by the decorative fountain at the centre. As soon as they were assembled the group began to retreat into the tree line, which, okay no. Just no. Having already resolved himself to keeping them for at least the time being, this would have to be put to a stop.

“And where do you think you're going?” the call had the entire herd freezing, twitching eyes and ears pointing at the short wizard and his raised eyebrow. When there was no further movement Harry rolled his eyes, stepping nearer before crouching to their level once more. “I don’t generally make a habit of leaving things alone – Hermione calls it my ‘saving-people-thing,’ and I imagine it extends to animals if past experience has anything to say.” They’d taken on formation once again, ringing the ginger tabby.

Having left his cloak in the broom shed the seat of his jeans became damp as soon as he sat on the ground, but the cats, at least some of them, elected to seat themselves too. He arched a brow at the continued silence, having expected something more than their blank, assessing stares. “Look,” he sighed, “it’s more than obvious that you aren’t normal cats – and honestly I’d bet a good chunk of my fortune on none of you being an average magical creature either.” Several ears perked at this, the scarred tabby in particular, “To be blatant, you all look bloody miserable – you’re dusty and dirty and if earlier was anything to go by, you haven’t had a decent meal in ages. Let me at least give you somewhere warm to stay for a little while. Whatever your situation might be, I’m honestly happy to help – be it a quick place to stay, trying to find owners, or whatever magical cats might end up needing.”

The cats, however, seemed less than thrilled at the prospect. Glances were shared and looks were had, and Harry Potter, Man-Who-Triumphed, Dark-Lord-Slayer, stood in his back garden as a herd of cats held a conference in meows and hisses before him.

Maybe they’re suspicious? he wondered, It is pretty suspect that the guy who’s shed they were camping out in is perfectly happy to help them out. And so, as he waited out the discussion, he though over ways to at least try and prove that he was an innocent bystander – for once.

“Look,” he started, lips twitching as every head swung towards him almost uniformly, “I don’t imagine there’s much I can do to prove I’m not going to do something diabolical, but, honestly, you look pretty pathetic.” A number of them twitched at his assessment, “No offence, but you lot don’t seem to be doing great in the survival department at the moment. You can either risk wandering off and probably being eaten by a herd of Thestrals, or you can risk trusting in a stranger.”

For a moment there's silence, unbroken by either party. When no answer is forthcoming he shrugged, before levering himself to his feet, “I’ll leave the door open for you if you change your minds. But if you decide on leaving, I really wouldn’t suggest the woods – there’s all sorts running around in there.” Ignoring the fact that all that his home was surrounded by miles of woodland, he turned on his heel, flight forgotten as he left behind a herd of conferring cats.


	2. Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How To Tempt Unsuspecting Cats Into Your Home, an informational pamphlet by H. J. Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow it's been like... four months?
> 
> Sorry for keeping you, I've been really busy with school and Christmas. Hopefully the next chapter wont take quite that long.
> 
> So, I've got about 5 big points:
> 
> 1\. Thank you so very much for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks. They mean the absolute world to me. If I haven't replied to anything it's probably because I saw it, left it too late, and felt too awkward to reply after letting a comment sit there for like three weeks.
> 
> 2\. There wont be much dialogue until the cats are all comfortably settled in the house and Harry shows his true isolated-hermit colours.
> 
> 3\. There is, in fact, going to be a plot. A big one, I think. So rest assured that I'm going to keep this going. As a handful of people pointed out, Harry really has the most ridiculous luck.
> 
> 4\. Someone asked for a list of all the cats, so I'll put that in the end notes.
> 
> 5\. I wrote and edited most of this on the train home from Manchester, on my phone, so if there's anything weird let me know. My autocorrect hates wizard-related words and sometimes pushes in random Welsh.

Digging through the fridge, Harry starts by finding some of the leftovers forced on him by Hermionie the previous day to pile onto plates to feed the cats. With shredded chicken, beef and some canned tuna set out he grabs more bowls for water. With a quick levitation charm, he carefully leads the procession of plates onto the patio, and steps back.

Letting his wand trace the doorway, Harry sets up a minor sensory ward there as well as on the bowls, before charming the immediate area to remain as warm as the indoors, to avoid losing any accumulated heat. With a satisfied nod, he leaves to continue with his interrupted Monday morning routine.

 

* * *

 

Relief is all too weak a word to describe how Harry feels upon hearing the chime of his sensory ward. After an hour and a half of filling out bland paperwork and replying to endless letters he's finally faced with a real excuse for stopping. Only to slump when he realises he should wait a bit, lest he spook them further. 

Twenty minutes and numerous, futile watch-checks later, he's quietly making his way back downstairs and towards the back entrance. Casually strolling past the still-open door reveals two of the more reckless-looking cats (silver and blonde) and, to the distress of indigo and maroon, the ginger one, all three of them are feasting on some of the food left out as if they hadn't eaten in days. Which, Harry realises with a dull pang of remembrance, is probably true. Behind them, big blue and the one with the missing eye look sorely tempted to join them, while the remainder watch on from behind the bubble of warm air in either boredom or exasperation. The small red one, he notes, is curled up just within the bubble, and seems very determined to ignore the entire situation despite his hesitant twitching.

As soon as Harry steps into view they all train their eyes on him, hyper focused and distracted from their mewling. Without missing a beat he waves a careless salute and wanders towards the kitchen. After tapping he kettle to the perfect temperature he sets about making a mug of tea, and slowly the sound of cats starts up again. From his limited view of the porch he can spot a handful of colourful tails shifting together, converging. 

Harry spends a moment contemplating the cats he's determined to bring into his care. They're a miserable, emancipated lot, and something deep within him aches at how defeated they looked, huddled in the shadows of his shed. Sighing, he finishes stirring in the milk and turns away from the window.

Tea in hand, Harry returns to the living room and makes himself comfortable on the sofa facing slightly away from the open door - through which he can spot the growing crowd within the bubble of warmth. Rolling his eyes, he summons the book abandoned on the mantelpiece late the previous night following his return from the Granger-Weasley household. A loan from Ron, it's part of the proposed mandatory reading for Auror recruits on defensive magic he's been asked to look over. Settling into it, Harry ignores the quieter, but no less noticeable sound of cats conversing outside his back door, and quells the anticipation brewing at the thought of a new adventure.

 

* * *

 

It's just past one o'clock when Harry finally puts the book down and decides on lunch. With a yawn, he pulls himself up off the sofa and chances a less-than-covert glance through the backdoor. He restrained himself from watching them throughout the morning, having finally had the "you're as subtle as a rogue bludger, Harry, honestly" lesson drummed into him by Ginny in the years following the war. Unobtrusive does not a Wizarding Saviour make. 

Most of the cats have settled into either a relaxed slouch or a solid food-coma, while only the stitches and the outcasted black remain out and alert. Though judging from the bare scraps left of the volumes of food he left out, they too had their fill. 

With careful steps he makes his way to the opening and crouches down in as nonthreatening a manner as physically possible. The dressing gown and fluffy grey rabbit slippers, he hopes, helps to that effect. Many raise from their slumped positions, while others are content to either sleep on or crack a single eye to train on him. Smiling in what Hermione calls "disarming" and McGonagall calls "don't think I've forgotten the two feet on Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration you owe me, Mr Potter," he wiggles his fingers and the empty plates start to stack themselves. A few wand-taps later and some studious ignorance of the immediate tensing, and the water bowls are refilled. Gathering up the now patiently floating pile of dishes, he eyes the group once more. 

"Remember you're more than welcome to come inside. I imagine it's much more comfortable than the patio." he tells them, before tapping the novelty doormat that bares the legend Wipe Your Paws amidst crisscrossing animated foot prints. Doubled gag-gifts for each entrance from the twins four years earlier, after he (finally) completed his animagus transformation. It has the handy of feature of jinxing anyone who steps across uninvited. 

After reheating a more balanced plate of left overs and eating, for once, at the dining room table, Harry sets about cleaning the morning's accumulated dirty dishes. He once agin takes care to ignore the noise coming from the next room.

 

* * *

 

Crossing back in after an extra ten minutes spent aimlessly puttering about, Harry's pleased to find that three of the cats have elected to take up his offer, and more look contemplatively through the doorway. He imagines that, if it weren't for his deep sleep, the silver one would also be on his sofa. As it is, he has one blonde, one ginger, and one orange-faced cat sprawled across the love-seat opposite his own chair. On the doormat the maroon and indigo cats look more distressed than ever, hissing at the smug looking ginger. Behind them big blue and the sleek black look almost ready to chance crossing the boundary. 

With a smile, Harry makes his way once more to his chosen sofa and continues browsing the borrowed book - it's alright, but he number of colourful Muggle sticky notes poking out from the sides make it clear it's lacking some depth; it's really better as a review book than anything to learn from. From his peripheral vision he can see the blonde cat being gently harassed by his companions. 

It's half an hour later, by his guess, that Harry notices he's now sharing the sofa. Glancing to the left, he spies the one-eyed cat watching him attentively. Shifting the book down, he closes the quill within the now-colourful pages and realises it's not him that's caught the attention of that single dark eye, but the scruffy blue feather of his quill.   
Slipping it from the book, Harry eyes the tense little body and twitching tail with amusement. 

"Is this what you want?" The cat makes and aborted leap, pausing and watching carefully. With a grin, Harry drags the feather across the sofa and watches him pounce. 

It's an uninterrupted ten minutes of cat-and-feather before there's one leap too far, sending the one eyed cat sailing off the edge of the sofa. With a panicked jerk, the book goes tumbling sideways as Harry throws himself into catching the little cat. The strangled noise he makes alerts the others, but Harry focuses on catching the sharp ball of fluff without hurting him.

With a sigh that's more released adrenaline than anything, he carefully brings the tense body towards himself, babbling. 

"You're okay, you're alright, no need to panic, please let go of my arm."

With and almost apologetic sound, the cat detaches its claws from the startlingly deep cuts rent across his arm. A tiny nose sniffs at the now bleeding flesh, and Harry snorts, carding a his free hand through the ridiculously soft fur. "Don't worry yourself, I'll be absolutely fine."

The questioning mrow he receives in return has him transferring the cat into his lap, removing his wand to tap his now-dripping arm with a muttered "Scourgify." With the he blood scrubbed away, the cuts are visibly healing over into faint pink welts. 

"See? No harm done." He grins down at the startled cat in his lap, missing the looks shared between the remaining felines. Rolling his sleeve back down, Harry quietly summons the discarded book and settles the cat more comfortable into his lap.

Looking up, he spots the three new cats dotting his furniture. Both indigo and maroon have joined orange on the sofa, while the little red one has claimed the cushy footstool. On the porch, the silver cat sleeps on while the remainder lounge attentively within the warmth. 

"Im thinking I should start with some names; I can't exactly just keep calling you out by colour. It's awkward." Harry frowns out at the number of eyes watching him, suddenly uncomfortable with the reminder that he's terrible at naming things.

"Maybe... Alastor?" looking down at the contrast of black and orange in his lap, he grins. "Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody was probably the best Auror of this century. He lost his eye and his leg in the First War, so he had this crazy prosthetic eye that could see through pretty much anything." Gently petting the now sad-eyes cat, he adds "He was killed as part of my protection detail years ago. He was an excellent wizard, if a bit excessively paranoid." Here he gives a small laugh, "Though I suppose it's not paranoia if they're actually after you."

He's distracted from musing aloud by a hiss over on the footstool. The blonde cat is busy bridging the gap between love-seat and footstool to bug the ring-tailed red, who's lazily batting at the slightly larger cat. Ignoring this, the blonde continues to paw at the other regardless. With a snort, Harry watches as the he overbalances from an overly ambitious swipe and tumbles onto the rug.

"He's a Gryffindor, definitely," he tells Alastor conspiratorially as they watch him yowl up at the smirking red. "What do you think of calling him Godric? Godric Griffindor stood for bravery and chivalry - as well as recklessness and not being able to think ahead." Alastor chirps and rubs against his hand in agreement, and Harry smiles. 

"Two down," he eyes the rest, "Ugh, ten to go. This will take some time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colour to Cat ratio:
> 
> Blonde/Godric: Deidara  
> Black and orange/one eyed/Alastor: Tobi  
> Orange/ginger: Yahiko  
> Silver: Hidan  
> Indigo: Konan  
> Maroon: Nagato  
> Small red/ring tailed: Sasori  
> Big blue: Kisame  
> Sleek black: Itachi  
> Brown/stitches: Kakuzu  
> Outcast black: Orochimaru  
> Black and white: Zetsu 
> 
> I've got most of the cat names more-or-less decided, but if anyone want to give a suggestion please, feel free. I'm bad at naming things without making a shitty-pun. It's a catastrophic character flaw of mine. Cataclysmic even. I just struggle to find the purrfect names. Pawsitively tragic.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally neck-deep in A-Levels right now, but I'll try and work on it whenever I have time. It's good practice for my English course, at least.


End file.
